


Under a Silver Moon

by thedevilchicken



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Getting Together, M/M, Masks, Outdoor Sex, Post-Assassin's Creed 1, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28207434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: For one day of each year, all Assassins in Masyaf dress in plain white robes and mask their faces. They become novices again, just for one night, each indistinguishable from one another, to remind themselves that there is always more to learn and more to master. But tonight, it seems Altaïr's mask might also serve another purpose, and Malik is eager to find out if his long-held desires are reciprocated.
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Comments: 6
Kudos: 122
Collections: Writing Rainbow Silver





	Under a Silver Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



For the past several hours, Malik has been the only one in the fortress at Masyaf not wearing a mask. 

Altaïr started this tradition shortly after he took leadership of the Brotherhood: for one day of each year, all Assassins in Masyaf dress in plain white robes and mask their faces. They become novices again, just for one night, each indistinguishable from one another, to remind themselves that there is always more to learn and more to master. He says it's to keep them humble; the fact that their brothers enjoy it is just a happy coincidence. 

Everyone participates, from Altaïr himself down to their most recent recruit, except for one brother who presides over the festivities as their mentor for the evening. This year, that brother is Malik - he's maskless, wearing black, and he's been sitting in Altaïr's seat wishing he could be lost in the sea of white robes instead. He understands that he's still recognisable with his empty left sleeve pinned up, but they maintain the pretence of anonymity that he has to admit he enjoys. It's much more tiring, being the one face that his brothers are permitted to admit to knowing in the midst of all the talk and food and music. 

As the night wears on, Malik rises from that seat. He only intends to leave for a few moments, to go outside and breathe fresh air and stretch, but once outside in the cool night air he sees someone already there. Even in his white robe, hood up and mask in place, he would know Altaïr anywhere; he could pick him from a crowd at fifty paces just from the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head. Altaïr looks at him across the courtyard, from where he's leaning back against a wall with one foot up, almost casual except that nothing that Altaïr does is casual. He's changed for the better. These days, he's a man that Malik can admire. 

He does admire him - he admires Altaïr a great deal. He admires the strength it took for him to change and he admires the strength it takes for him to lead them. He admires his decision to wear novices' robes one night each year and blend in with the others, not that he blends particularly well. There's a confidence to the way he moves that Malik can't describe, a confidence he has in every leap of faith, a confidence within him born of knowledge of himself and understanding of their creed. He admires that, too.

He admires him, but this is more than simple admiration. Malik has known this for some time. For some time, he has wondered if Altaïr knows this or if the teasing things they sometimes say to one another are just that - teasing, between two men who have known each other almost all their lives. He wonders if perhaps tonight of all nights is the time to find out. 

"Novice," he says. 

They're alone in the courtyard and so there's only one man to whom Malik could be speaking. Altaïr seems to understand this and to his credit he only hesitates for a second, only stiffens for a second at the sound of that old title that Malik used for him so many times when they were in Jerusalem. Then he pushes himself from the wall and comes closer, that confidence of his so evident in every stride. Once, when he was still jealous of Altaïr's successes, he would have called it arrogance, and jealous or not he would have been right. These days, he would call it something else. 

Altaïr goes down on one knee in front of him, there on the dusty stone paving. He rests one arm to his knee and bows his masked, hooded head. 

"Dai," he says. "How can I serve you?"

Malik clucks his tongue. "You serve the Creed, brother, now me," he says. "You know this." 

Altaïr bows lower. "Yes, Dai," he says. "I serve the Creed." But then he raises his head and the mask he's wearing, the stiffened fabric painted white and tied with linen strips beneath his hood, can't hide his eyes. They sparkle. Underneath his mask, Malik suspects he's smiling. 

"I serve the Creed," Altaïr says again. "But how can I serve _you_?"

It would be easy to laugh that question off, Malik thinks. He could tell him to rise and return to the party; their brothers are in fine voice, dancing, and there's music drifting out into the courtyard air. But instead he takes a half step closer. Instead, he reaches down and pats the cheeks of Altaïr's mask. 

"What would you do to serve me, Novice?" he asks. "If I gave you a name, would you kill the man who bore it?"

"Yes," Altaïr replies. "I'd trust your research, Dai." 

"Would you climb to the top of the highest tower and jump from it?"

"Yes. I'd trust you had prepared a place for me to land." 

"And if I told you to open your robes," Malik says. "If I told you to pleasure yourself, here, on your knees?"

As easy as it would have been for Malik to laugh off Altaïr's question, so it would be easy for Altaïr to laugh off his. He could rise and remove his mask, smile and clap Malik on the shoulder and they could go inside together, talk together, eat, share the burden of Malik's night as leader of the novices. But Altaïr's eyes are still on him as he shifts. He goes down onto both his knees instead of only one and he sits back on his heels and he sweeps apart the long split sides of his white robe. He sweeps up the hem of the layer beneath and as he tucks his thumbs into the waistband of the trousers beneath that, he pauses. 

"Is that what you're asking me to do, Dai?" he asks, as Malik's pulse beats wildly. And he should laugh and tell him no, but this is not the hundred light flirtations that have followed them throughout the years. 

"Yes," he says. "That is what I'm asking you to do." 

Altaïr rises up onto his knees just long enough to pull his trousers down to catch behind them, then he settles back again. He's bared himself from hips to thigh, and Malik almost can't believe he's done it - even less so when he wraps his left hand, his blade hand, the one that's missing its third finger, around his as yet still soft manhood and begins to stroke. He stiffens quickly, more quickly than Malik would have expected, until his cock stands up thick and hard between his bare thighs there in the moonlight. 

He knows he should stop it, but the fact that Altaïr is doing this at all, the fact that he is risking their discovery, the fact that Malik can hear his unsteady breath behind his mask...he can't stop it. He'd like to push back Altaïr's hood and take off his mask and run the pad of his thumb across the scar there in his lips, then kneel and chase it with his mouth. He'd like to kiss him, hard, the final outcome of all these long, fraught years. Instead, he taps his shoulder. He says, "Come with me, Novice." And then he turns to walk away. 

There are more private places that they could go to: Altaïr has his own rooms, of course, as does Malik because Altaïr gave them to him once he'd left the Jerusalem Bureau and returned to Masyaf on a permanent basis. There are rooms Malik knows are barely ever used, dark corridors, stairwells leading into disused towers, but those places seem suddenly so far away, so inconveniently far. The colonnade they come to seems like far enough, where they can still hear the music and laughter inside but they're lit only by the moonlight and not the lamps burning inside. Malik presses his hand to the centre of Altaïr's chest and eases him back against the wall. 

"Turn around," he says, and he only has to wonder for a moment if Altaïr will do it; he turns, and he sweeps his white robe out of the way, lets his trousers drop, so he's bare from his backside to the tops of his boots. 

"Like this, Dai?" he asks, with a glance over his shoulder, and Malik's cock throbs inside his own robes. 

"Very good, Novice," he replies. "But don't always be expecting praise for doing simply as instructed." 

Altaïr turns his face back to the wall. "Then what should I do to earn your praise?" he asks.

"Part your cheeks," Malik tells him, as his face burns hot, and Altaïr does it. He leans there against the wall with one shoulder, his head turned just a fraction so the mask scrapes against the stone, and he parts his cheeks with both his hands. He exposes himself in the most obscene way Malik's fantasies could conjure, and when Malik reaches out to brush his fingertips between Altaïr's parted cheeks, against his hole, he sees him shiver. He can scarcely believe that once-proud Altaïr is indulging him this way. He is not disappointed. 

He goes down onto his knees - inside, no one will be bold enough to ask what he's been doing that has left dust on his trousers. He runs his hand up the back of Altaïr's right thigh, over his hand, circles his wrist just for a moment before he brushes his first two fingers against the rim of his hole. He thinks perhaps he should feel embarrassed as he leans in, as he runs his thumb over him, as he breathes out there hotly, as he gives Altaïr's exposed rim a not quite tentative lick with just the tip of his tongue, but he refuses embarrassment. He wants this. Nothing will keep him from having it, now that it's been offered. 

The muscle at Altaïr's hole is tight but not unyielding; Malik strokes him there with his thumb as he teases him with his tongue and finds it tightens and relaxes almost in time with the strain of the muscles in Altaïr's thighs, with the way he rocks up a fraction onto his toes as he's still spreading his cheeks so wide with both his hands. Malik's cheekbone brushes Altaïr's fingers and he turns his head to press his mouth there, briefly, to his knuckles, to the place he's missing his finger, before he turns back to his hole. Altaïr gasps, and he leans down lower, and he spreads his legs a little wider, as wide as he can without stripping himself, and Malik thinks he would like that, the chilly air and moonlight against Altaïr's bare skin, but not now. 

Now he presses the tip of his tongue there, steadily, hotly, until he feels Altaïr's hole relax. He runs his hand forward between Altaïr's legs, cups his balls, takes their weight, and a needy, breathy sound escapes Altaïr's mask, against the wall, that makes Malik's cock ache as it pushes at his trousers. He's wanted him for so long, he thinks, and wonders if Altaïr has felt the same except that doesn't matter, not now - he laps at him, wetly, hotly, fucks him with his tongue until his jaw aches just twenty seconds later then he sucks on his own first two fingers, gets them wet enough that when he presses them to Altaïr's hole, when he presses them _in_ , the fit is tight but not tight enough for Altaïr to stop him. He moans instead, the sound bitten off quickly but Malik knows he heard it, and Altaïr's fingers shift, spreading himself wider, opening himself up for Malik's fingers. He wonders if Altaïr will open himself up like that for his cock, too, and so he decides he should find out. 

All he has to use to ease his way is his own saliva and the moisture gathered there at the tip of his cock, but Altaïr doesn't protest that; Malik stands, and he frees his cock from inside his robes, feels the chilly night air then his own hot hand as he slicks himself as best he can, and then the heat of Altaïr's skin as he lets the length of his erection rest against his ass. He nudges the tip down against his hole and his heart hammers, his fingers feel the strange chill of excitement and he pushes forward, slowly - he pushes in, hears Altaïr gasp, feels his hole surrender, feels him opening, taking him, inch by slow, hot inch. The friction of it is so close to unbearable, the fit so tight, and it takes time, not that he minds. It takes time for him to push inside, as far as he can go, until his hips are pressed flush to Altaïr's backside. He slips his hand around Altaïr's waist, rests his splayed fingers over Altaïr's clothed chest, holds him close, and then, finally, he makes a move. 

Fucking him is just as slow. It has to be - he has no desire to hurt him and, it seems, Altaïr feels no pain. He moves his hands to the wall now that Malik is inside him and he braces himself, pushes back a little so that Malik's cock manages to enter just a little deeper. Malik's breath is harsh and he can hear Altaïr's, he can hear Altaïr's robes rustling, can hear his mask scrape the wall, can hear the scuff of his boots against the ground as they move together. He'd like to be in bed with him, in Altaïr's rooms or his own, or months ago in the bureau back in Jerusalem, in the warm courtyard where Altaïr would rest before his missions. He'd like to have taken his time, oiled him, teased him with his fingers and his mouth until he couldn't stand it - he thinks he could have made the mighty Altaïr beg him to show mercy. But here is where it's happening, with the strains of music from inside that can't keep his attention, and as he runs his hand down between Altaïr's thighs, as he wraps his fingers around his length, he can't find it in himself to feel regret. 

He strokes him as he fucks him, the same way that he fucks him - he does it slowly, though he doesn't exactly take his time. He does it with his forehead resting down against the back of Altaïr's shoulder, his breath hitching, Altaïr moving with him as his cock strains even harder still. Altaïr's hips buck and he tries - and fails - to muffle a groan as he comes over Malik's fingers and the wall. And frankly, it doesn't take much more for Malik, either: he feels the way that Altaïr's hole pulls tight around him, again and again, and all that he can do is push in deep as he pulses with his own release inside him. 

"Is this what you wanted, Dai?" Altaïr asks, low and breathless, while Malik is still in him, before he's even begun to soften. "Is this worthy of your praise?"

Malik groans. He raises his head from Altaïr's shoulder and, slowly, he pulls out of him. Slowly, he rearranges his clothes to some semblance of order, and he watches Altaïr begin to do the same. 

"Yes, Novice," he replies, as Altaïr is covering himself. His voice sounds raw but he doesn't mind that; Altaïr should, at the very least, understand he has enjoyed this. He should understand how much. "You are praiseworthy indeed." 

Altaïr turns. "Then will you do something for me?" he asks. "Though I know that as a novice I have no right to ask." 

Malik chuckles, and he'd like to ask him when his rank ever stopped him asking for anything at all, but he just replies, "You can ask, Novice." 

"Close your eyes." 

He does so. It's a little thing, only a small thing, and once his eyes are closed he can hear Altaïr's footsteps coming closer. He can hear fabric, like Altaïr taking down his hood, removing his mask, and then he feels Altaïr's hands at his shoulders. He feels Altaïr's lips brush his. When Altaïr kisses him, it's not chaste, not brotherly; he fits their lips together, fingers brushing Malik's nape, and lets it deepen just a moment before he pulls away again. Malik opens his eyes; as the mask comes back down into place, all he sees of Altaïr's face is the scar in his lips, and it makes his chest clench. He knew this was no novice, of course, from the way that he stands and the measure of his stride, from his hands and the sound of his voice almost familiar to him as his own is, but the confirmation of it almost takes his breath away. 

"Thank you, Dai," Altaïr says, and he bows, and he steps back. "Will that be all?"

He'd like to say no, and take him to his rooms, or have him take off his mask and sit with him in the courtyard. But what he says is, "For now, yes." 

"Then I'll leave you now." 

Malik nods. Altaïr moves away toward the doors and Malik watches him and in the end he can't help it: "Altaïr?" he says. 

Altaïr turns back. He cocks his head and he sweeps his hood down; he pulls his mask back off, all pretence that he's just an unknown, eager novice vanishing in an instant. He smiles at him wryly as the mask dangles from his hand. 

"Do I need the mask next time, Malik?" he asks. "Or perhaps I should invent another custom to encourage your attention?" 

Malik laughs. He shakes his head. "Next time I would like to have you, Altaïr, and not a novice," he says. "Would that please you?"

Altaïr slips his mask back on. "Nothing would please me more," he says. "Tomorrow?"

"Are you so eager?"

When Altaïr looks at him, the jut of his chin and the set of his shoulders, the dark tone of his voice, say he's serious as much as the words, "Yes, I am." Then he turns, and he goes back inside, leaving Malik there alone. But the moonlight is bright, and he won't be alone for long. 

Perhaps next year, Altaïr will wear the black robes, or else they'll both dress in white. Either way, Malik somehow doesn't doubt the two of them will find a way to enjoy the night. But for now, Malik feels very much as if he's the one who's learned a lesson and not the white-robed novice. It's a lesson he's happy to have learned.


End file.
